


Darkness and Moon

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Series: Tourist Attraction [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Domestic Discipline, Gen, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV John Winchester, Parent-Child Relationship, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Punishment, Spanking, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12660060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: It was evident from Dean's voice that he hadn't come down from the high of the hunt yet, the hunt and the stupid stunt he'd pulled; a stunt which landed them where they were, running three hours behind schedule and with Dean handcuffed in the back seat. And not for the first time.But it was going to be the last.





	Darkness and Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: parental spanking of a young adult - if it offends, please don't read.
> 
> You will probably have no trouble understanding what's going on in this story without reading [Tourist Attraction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12348801), but I recommend you read it; not just because it's mine and I like it, but because it illustrates Dean's "game". And Also because it's mine and I like it.

"Umm, Dad? You're gonna uncuff me or what? Sometime tonight would be nice."

John glanced at Dean through the rearview mirror. It was hours past midnight, the Impala's headlights carved a trail in the pitch-black of the woody road the rolled on, and there was no light inside the car other than the faint glow of the dashboard.

But John didn't need to see Dean's face; it was evident from his voice that he hadn't come down from the high of the hunt yet. The high of the hunt and of the stupid stunt he'd pulled, a stunt which landed them where they were, running three hours behind schedule and with Dean handcuffed in the back seat. And not for the first time.

But it was going to be the last.

"Dad?"

"What's the matter?" He let a little aggravation into his voice. "I got the impression you liked being handcuffed."

"I don't really swing that way," Dean was still speaking with that light, carefree tone, although by now he probably sensed in his father's voice that something was off. "If it was a hot chick, then yeah, I might go for it, but you know-"

"How about a middle-aged, overweight sheriff?"

It actually took a minute for Dean to reply; he was no doubt trying to guess what was on his father's mind, as he sounded a bit more cautious now. "Can't say that it's my type."

"Funny, because lately you're getting cuffed dreadfully often by that exact type."

This time the pause was longer, Dean's tone even more cautious. "It's an occupational hazard, Dad, you told me that. You get arrested sometimes, too."

"Yeah? Can you remember the last time I did?"

John almost couldn't see Dean in the gloom, but he was sure the kid was shrugging. "What's the big deal? I mean, okay, I got busted a couple of times, but that's why you've got that awesome FBI badge, right?"

"No, Dean," he was done trying to control his anger. "That's not why I've got the badge. It's for helping me get the job done, not for charging in and hauling your ass out of every sheriff's department in the country just because you happen to get a kick out of seeing the looks on those cops' faces when their suspect gets snatched from under their noses."

"I don't-"

"The hell you don't. You've been hunting with me since you were what, eleven? Seven years with hardly any run-ins with the law, and all of a sudden you're getting arrested for the fifth time in four months, and only on small rural towns with half-wit cops you could have outrun with a bullet in your leg? You wanna maybe explain that to me?"

John glanced at the mirror again; Dean was staring back, faint light from the dashboard caught in his eyes. "It's not… it's not like that," he said at last.

"Then what is it like, Dean? Because to me it looks awfully like you found out how hilarious it was to get busted by some pimple-faced deputy that thinks he's gonna win a goddamned Nobel Prize for apprehending a major-league criminal, just to have some fed waltz in and claim the perpetrator is a most-wanted and whisk him away. I'll cut you some slack and say that the first time it happened was unintentional, but you got a taste, didn't you? And you liked it."

John could feel, rather than see, Dean bristling. "So what? Wasn't any harm in any of it. The jobs were done. Nobody got hurt. And those cops were just so dumb, you know? Okay, yeah, I might have been playing 'em a little-"

"You were playing them? Or me?" John let the question hang in the dark air of the Impala; he knew damn well that Dean didn't even think about it, using his father, as much as those small-town sheriffs and deputies, as a prop in his little game. And he knew that the realization of it was filling Dean stomach with ice water.

He had to give the boy credit, though, because Dean managed to find his tongue quicker than he expected. "Dad, I… I didn't…" okay, so maybe not that much credit. He dialed his tone down a notch, so it was now almost gentle.

"This new… _pastime_ of yours was not only stupid, it was incredibly dangerous. If at any of those towns the cops would have gotten just a little bit suspicious, if they were to try and check out the cover story or the aliases, if either of them knew one of the others and found out the same scenario played in more than one town – we would have been screwed. They would have arrested me as well. Sammy would have been left alone."

A soft, choked sound came from the back seat, and John knew why; Dean was so taken with his new hobby, he had forgotten about Sam. It was now hitting him, and hard. By itself, it was almost enough of a punishment for Dean. Almost.

Up ahead the darkness lightened up some. The road they traveled by winded between curtains of trees so high and thick, they hid the nearly-full moon and left the Impala crawling in an inky tunnel; but they were coming up on a clearing on the right shoulder, where the trees gave way and silvery light poured through the gap.

John slowed down and pulled over onto the pool of light. It was a wide stretch of dirt leading from the road down to a riverbank. Closer to the water stood a few picnic tables and benches. It was clearly a rest stop, now completely deserted and bathing in moonlight.

John drove the car a bit deeper into the rest stop and then killed the engine. He got out and looked around. Without the Impala's rumble, the night was silent and still, with only the slightest wind to make the trees whisper in the chilly dark. He stood there for a minute, letting his night vision take over, and then went to the rear door.

Dean looked up at him as he opened the door and reached in. John took hold on his son's arm and steadied him as he maneuvered out of the back seat. Leaving Dean's hands cuffed behind his back, John directed him to the rear of the car. There he halted and turned Dean to face him. The boy was very pale in the moonlight, his breathing shallow and fast.

"I told you repeatedly we need to fly under the radar, to avoid unnecessary encounters with the authorities so we can stay safe, didn't I?" He asked quietly, as if not wanting to disturb the night.

"Yes, sir," Dean's voice was unsteady.

"And when we set out for this hunt, I warned you to be careful and focused, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir."

"Was there anything about tonight's game plan that was unclear to you?"

"No, sir."

"Were you able to avoid getting arrested?"

A moment's pause, and then, even more quietly, "yes, sir."

"The other times over the last few months when you got arrested, were you able to avoid it?"

"The first time no, sir. Like you said. The rest yes."

"So you let yourself be arrested for the sake of entertainment?" Dean tried to drop his eyes, but John held his chin up. "Answer me."

"I didn't mean anything by it. It was just-"

"Was it a game you were playing? Yes or no."

"Yes, sir," Dean's eyes seemed to be a bit shinier now, and he was blinking, clearly fighting back tears.

John nodded once, unbuckled Dean's belt and unbuttoned his jeans. Then he looked into his son's face again. There was a tear trailing down his left cheek.

"You were disobedient, irresponsible, _reckless_. You put our family in danger because you wanted to have some kind of sick fun."

"Dad, please," there were tears in Dean's voice, too. "Please, don't. I'm so sorry, don't, please-"

John turned him so he was facing the car, pulled down his jeans and boxers to mid-thigh and bent him over the trunk, pushing up the tail of his jacket. He did all of this carefully, almost gently, as Dean wasn't resisting in the slightest; he knew better than to put up a fight when his father was manhandling him.

With his upper body resting flat on the smooth black metal, Dean twisted to look over his shoulder at John, who was unbuckling his own belt now. "Dad, please," there was little to no hope in that whisper. With his eyes teary and huge, and his freckles glowing softly in the moonlight, Dean looked all of six years old. And there was nothing, _nothing_ , John wanted in this world more than to cradle his baby boy to his chest and hold him until the sky came tumbling down, and the sea burned dry, and the mountains crumbled to dust.

But Dean wasn't six anymore, and he had made his own bed.

John doubled the belt over and held both ends in his fist. "Eyes front." Dean blinked, then twisted back and settled over the trunk.

John assessed the target area, which was perfectly framed between the hem of Dean's dark leather jacket and the waistband of his dark jeans, reared his arm back and let the belt fly.

He set a brisk pace, bringing the belt down as hard as he dared. He wanted this over with as soon as possible, and not only because they were already incredibly late; he was uncomfortable disciplining his son by the roadside like this. But the only other option was doing it back at the motel room, which meant waking Sam up and sending him to wait in the bathroom, where he would undoubtedly cry his eyes out listening to his big brother having his ass handed to him.

Dean flinched sharply whenever the belt came down. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he didn't have the luxury of using his arms to hush his voice. He did try, though, by craning his neck and bringing his shoulder up so he could press his mouth to it. It muffled his cries of pain some, but John could still hear them clearly in the silence of the rest stop. Each one was a sharp, deep stab in his gut.

The light of the moon revoked the world of most colors. John could see Dean's milky skin darkening under the belt's angry lashes, although he couldn't tell whether it was just crimson or already going on purple. But he did know it was enough.

John took a minute to thread his belt back through the loops of his jeans, and to regulate his breathing while he was at it. He produced a key from his pocket and uncuffed Dean's wrists, grimacing at the sight of the grooves the metal bracelets had carved into the flesh. Dean didn't even notice; only when John slightly shifted Dean's arms away from his back, did the boy move them over to bury his face in them.

He lay sobbing over the trunk, his body shaking, and John carefully pulled up his boxers, trying to drag them as gently as possible over the bruised skin. Then he leaned on the trunk and started stroking Dean's head and the back of his neck. When he felt a slight change in the intensity of Dean's crying, he worked his hands under Dean's arms and lifted him up, turned him, and finally had him resting against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his son's trembling body, touched his stubble-covered cheek to Dean's head, and closed his eyes.

Yes, they were running late. Yes, Sam was all alone and they should have been getting back to him. And yes, they needed to haul ass and get the hell out of the state. But right now, all of this didn't matter. What mattered was his boy in his arms, his smart, valiant, beautiful boy. He would hold him until the moon diminished to a crescent and filled up again, if that was what Dean needed him to do.

Dean's sobbing slowly subsided. He was leaning against John, his face tucked into the crook of his neck, his breath still hitching. John raised one hand and stroked his dark blond hair, passed the hand down the back of his neck, and repeated the motion.

"I'm sorry," Dean's voice, tiny and muffled. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I was an idiot."

John sighed and stroked his hair again. "You're forgiven."

"I won't do it again."

"I know you won't, son."

Dean was silent for a few more minutes and then asked, almost too quietly for John to hear, "are you gonna tell Sammy? What I did?"

"Not his business."

"He'll see I got whipped. He'll wanna know why."

"Tell him whatever you want. I'll back your story up."

"Thanks, Dad," Dean pulled away, and John let him, trying not to mind the little pinch of sorrow. Dean snuffled and wiped his sleeve across his face, and then bent down to hoist up his jeans. He winced as the denim scraped over his ass, and left them unbuttoned. John considered teasing him about the downsides of tight-fitting jeans, and decided against it. He was about to return to the car, but couldn't resist one last touch. As his fingers trailed over Dean's cheek, he saw a hint of a smile in the corners of his son's mouth.

"You can lie down in the back," he said over his shoulder as he finally headed for the driver's side door. "Or you can ride shotgun." Dean's shotgun privilege was revoked on occasion, and John figured the boy would assume it was the case now, too, which it wasn't. Dean's punishment was over and done with, as far as John was concerned.

John climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. He actually expected Dean to take him up on his offer to lie down, and was more than a little surprised when his son slid in through the passenger's side door. Dean grimaced and fidgeted, scooted around a bit and finally managed to settle down carefully in his seat.

Dean must have seen John looking at him, because he turned his head and flashed him a full, bright, endlessly adorable grin. "Mind those potholes, okay, Dad?"

"You watch your smart mouth, I'll watch the potholes."

"Deal."

John dropped the gear shift into drive, and they were off.

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story after finishing "Tourist Attraction", but thought to myself that John probably wouldn't punish Dean for accidentally getting arrested while on the job. And then I thought: what if it wasn't accidental, and didn't happen just once?...
> 
> But still, I almost didn't write it. And then I did. Tell me if it was worth it :)
> 
> Like my works? Want to subscribe and get updates on new stories? Make sure you subscribe to the **user** and not the specific work!


End file.
